


Stairwell

by snoqualmie



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoqualmie/pseuds/snoqualmie
Summary: He’s drunk. Oikawa is beautiful, earthy browns and pale skin against the dark blues of the night and florescent lighting of the stairwell. When Oikawa turns away Iwaizumi stares at the side of his face. His nose is sort of upturned at the tip.





	

Iwaizumi’s not a partier. He likes them, he guesses, as much as any other person. But he also likes a night in: a hockey game, his cat in his lap, a nice pale ale, being at home where drunk college girls aren’t touching his arms and random people aren’t trying to get him to shotgun shitty beer after shitty beer. He pushes out into the stairwell of the apartment complex and heaves a sigh of relief when the door swings shut behind him so all he can hear is the muted bass of American Christmas pop from inside. His sweater is choking him to death— the itchy bastard—and he pulls at the neck of it as he plops his happy ass down on the stairs.

 _Fuck you, Santa sweater,_ Iwaizumi thinks. _With your stupid itchy wool and fat cheeks._

It’s an open-air stairwell, and it’s a little chilly, but the city looks beautiful, with the lights of the holiday season adding to the typical brightness of the city. Iwaizumi takes in the sound of cars whooshing by, the music behind him, the echo of the breeze up through the concrete stairs. He misses seeing the stars, but home is only a couple of hours away and if he really needs to escape, he can.

The party kind of sucks, anyway. He hasn’t even seen who he’s been looking for.

He takes a deep breath.

That’s another thing about parties, you can’t fucking _breathe._ Iwaizumi sucks in another breath just as a “fuck you” to the stifling party air. He tips his head back and lets the outside air chill his lungs, watching his breath puff out in little clouds. He doesn’t know how long he sits out there. Winter nights always feel like this, like time isn’t passing, especially around the holidays. There are more than few times where the sound of slamming door, a couple streaking down the stairs, stumbling over their words and grabbing at each other has Iwaizumi scooting closer to the rail, but he stays put, breathing and thinking and watching the city lights.

It’s Christmas Eve. He should be with a girl, probably, on a proper date-type scenario complete with hot cocoa and stolen kisses and all of that shit. Instead, he’s sitting in some stairwell in a random apartment complex with half a beer and enough alcohol in his gut to make his fingers clumsy as they type out a reply to his cousin’s “merry Christmas!” text. He pockets his phone, sips his beer, and is about to stand up to go the fuck home to have a few more when he hears feet scuffing up the stairs below him. He waits, hopes it’s the person he’s been looking for and not a party-goer that’ll try to drag him back.

It is.

The other person stops and gives Iwaizumi a surprised look. The last two and a half hours he’s spent bouncing back and forth between two parties were in vain because the person he’s been searching for is right there. God damn.

“Iwa-chan?” the boy asks, a grin splitting his face.

“I told you,” Iwaizumi says carefully, “not to call me that, shithead.”

“You look festive,” he continues, pointedly ignoring what Iwaizumi said. He gestures toward Iwaizumi’s outfit. “The sweater is a nice touch. And the antlers.”

Iwaizumi grunts and looks at the boy in front of him. Long legs, cardigan, sweater. There’s a collar peeking out from under the neck of the sweater. _Of course._ Layers on layers, as always. There are days where Iwaizumi doesn’t even put a shirt on under his hoodie. Iwaizumi is suddenly self-conscious, reaches up and pulls the twinkling antlers off his head.

“Too drunk to party?” the boy asks, hopping up the stairs and plopping down next to Iwaizumi.

“No, shithead,” Iwaizumi says. “I just needed some air. You look like a fucking”—of course, now it slips his mind. He rubs a fist into his eye—”fucking Eastern tent moth.”

“Stop calling me the s-word,” the boy snaps. His lower lip pokes out in a pout and Iwaizumi wants to bite it. “What’s that?"

“It’s either shithead or shit for brains. You pick,” Iwaizumi says. His heart is beating too hard.

“I’m appalled, Iwa-chan,” he says airily, plucking the beer out of Iwaizumi’s hand and sipping it.

“I was going to—”

“No you weren’t,” he interrupts, then continues. “I’m _appalled_ that you can be so mean to me. I’m so charming. How drunk are you? Do you even remember my name?”

“Shithead,” Iwaizumi replies. “I’m not that drunk, man. Like, six beers max right now. We have a class together. See? I know who you are.”

The boy just looks at him. Waiting. Is he stupid? Obviously Iwaizumi knows his name.

Iwaizumi just says, “Shitty-kawa.”

It’s hilarious. A laugh chokes out of him, not Oikawa.

“ _Oi_ kawa,” he snaps, still pouting at Iwaizumi. “Tooru.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi replies, taking his beer back and setting on the stair below him. Oikawa’s kind of drunk, Iwaizumi realizes when he turns back to look at him again. His eyes are heavy lidded and he’s all red in the cheeks. He’s pretty.

“It’s a moth,” Iwaizumi realizes he’s forgotten to answer. “It’s a moth that looks like you. Brown. And fluffy. And cute. Big eyes. It’s fluffy. Eastern tent moth.”

Oikawa grins and props his elbows on his knees, leaning his chin into his hand and looking at Iwaizumi through his lashes, “You think I’m cute, huh? Even though you’re mean to me?”

“You’re alright,” Iwaizumi mumbles.

Oikawa huffs.

It’s a lie. Oikawa is fucking gorgeous. His smile is saccharine sweet, tempting. Iwaizumi thinks about his Calc III class, thinks about Oikawa’s hand in the air when the professor offers to let someone solve the ridiculous problem on the board, thinks about the way his ass looks when he cocks his hip and he’s really focusing on figuring something out, the way he fucks up the grade curve with his ridiculous test scores. Iwaizumi wants to talk but he’s nervous, The last time he was nervous was when he had to give a presentation in his freshman public speaking class. It’s weird, simultaneously feeling like he should get up and run and feeling an overwhelming urge to just spill his guts. _I think you’re amazing. I think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. I think you’re beautiful._ There’s bass echoing vaguely through the stairwell around them. Whatever the artist is singing about seems way too sexual to be a Christmas song. Iwaizumi settles for clearing his throat awkwardly and peeking at Oikawa out of the corner of his eyes.

“Do you watch hockey?”

Oikawa shakes his head then asks, “Do you?”

“Yeah, American league mostly,” Iwaizumi replies. He’s scrambling for common ground. They’ve never talked like this before. “Did you just leave a party?”

Oikawa’s face scrunches, “Yeah. Too loud. You can’t breathe in parties like that, you know?”

Iwaizumi knows. It’s quiet. Iwaizumi fiddles with the stupid headband and Oikawa plucks it out of his hands, puts it on himself. The antlers are still flashing.

The moment feels suspended. Like there’s a big board somewhere with a bunch of buttons all over it and whoever’s in charge just hit pause on the button labelled _TIME PASSING._  
  
He’s drunk. Oikawa is beautiful, earthy browns and pale skin against the dark blues of the night and florescent lighting of the stairwell. When Oikawa turns away Iwaizumi stares at the side of his face. His nose is sort of upturned at the tip.

Oikawa breaks the silence first, “You live with Daichi, don’t you? In the complex a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. You’re Suga’s friend,” Iwaizumi says stupidly. Like Oikawa doesn’t already fucking know that. “I think they might be a thing. Suga’s at our place a lot.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies, head lolling to the side. He’s close. He’s looking at Iwaizumi like he’s an idiot. He probably is.

“Don’t you guys live in this building?” Iwaizumi asks. He looks at Oikawa’s mouth.

“Yeah.” Oikawa leans back on his elbows, stretches his legs out.

They’re so _long._ Iwaizumi’s skin feels too tight for his body. They’ve only spoken a couple of times. Oikawa is obnoxious and loud and calls him Iwa-chan like they’re six years old. They see each other in class, they get dragged to the same parties by their respective roommates. He watches Oikawa from across rooms as he brushes his hands down girls’ arms, smiles at them like he’s telling a secret. Iwaizumi watches him brush his hand across the back of boys’ necks and smile knowingly when they look confused and more than a little into it.

Iwaizumi’s been all sorts of twisted up over him since he walked into Suga’s apartment to drop off a textbook and Oikawa was curled up on the couch with his hair tied up in front with a pink bobble and none of the usual bravado. He was sick, snotty and whiny with a fever that was probably high enough to send him to the hospital. Glazed eyes, shivers, big, chunky glasses. Iwaizumi had thought he looked amazing.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’ll kill you,” Oikawa had snapped, scowling and burrowing further into his blanket nest. “Suga, Daichi’s mean roommate is here! Make him leave!”

He’s funny _and_ smart. Double whammy. He’s taller than Iwaizumi. The first string setter for their university’s volleyball team, too. Quadruple whammy. Totally out of Iwaizumi’s league. Iwaizumi doesn’t get why Oikawa’s sitting out here with him and not with someone else. He’s grateful for it, though.

By the time Iwaizumi drags his eyes back up to Oikawa’s face, it’s awkward. He’s been caught staring and isn’t sober enough to come up with an excuse on the spot. Oikawa snorts a surprisingly weird laugh as Iwaizumi just keeps staring. His face is definitely more red than the cold justifies, which Iwaizumi wants to take as a good sign.

They’re so close that it feels like there’s a negative amount of space between them, crammed close in a freezing cold stairwell outside of holiday parties that neither of them really want to be at. Oikawa wets his lips, watches Iwaizumi’s eyes flicker down to them and back up. His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement.

Iwaizumi decides to grab Christmas Eve by the balls.

“Do you wan—”

“Yeah,” Oikawa breathes, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of the neck of Iwaiuzmi’s sweater.

He sets a hand on the back of Oikawa’s neck, pulls him closer, leans their foreheads together. He lets himself breathe Oikawa in for a second. He smells like vodka and nice cologne and honey.  
  
Iwaizumi’s been thinking about this for months and he might be a little drunk but dammit if he doesn’t savor the moment.

Then they kiss. It’s warm and soft and too dry but Iwaizumi’s stomach bottoms out and he sighs into it, wants more. He curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of Oikawa’s neck and kisses him harder, drags his other hand up to cup his jaw. Oikawa’s mittened hands settle on his face while they kiss slow and messy where anybody could walk up and see them.

By the time they’re stumbling up the stairs Iwaizumi can barely breathe between open mouthed kisses. Oikawa stops them on the fourth story so he can grope at the front of Iwaizumi’s pants and grin.  
  
Oikawa drops his lanyard twice before they get into the apartment. The door swings shut behind them hiss whispers, “Shoes off! Shoes off first!”

Iwaizumi grins and kicks his shoes off while he paws at Oikawa’s clothes.

“There’s nobody home,” Iwaizumi says between kisses. “Why are you whispering?”

He tosses the mittens to the side first. It’s cold, yeah, but are this many layers really necessary? Jacket, cardigan, sweater, button down, jeans. Leggings?

“Seriously?” Iwaizumi teases, tugging the waistband of them.

“They’re fleece lined,” Oikawa says breathlessly.

“Why?” Iwaizumi laments as he tries to wiggle Oikawa out of them. They’re so _tight._ “Why do you wear so many layers all the time?”

“I run cold!” Oikawa whines, kicking them to the side and pushing at Iwaizumi’s chest. “Why am I the only one naked? Pants off!”

“You’re not naked,” Iwaizumi points out. “You have socks on.”

His back hits the kitchen counter and Oikawa’s hands are at his belt, deftly undoing it and yanking it off so fast that it smacks him on the bare thigh. He yelps and drops the belt, rubbing at his thigh and pouting. Iwaizumi has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

They trip over something as Iwaizumi gets walked backwards. It’s probably unimportant, though, because there’s a loud cracking noise but Oikawa laughs so loud that Iwaizumi has to clap a hand over his mouth. He still has neighbors. Oikawa slips on the hardwood in his socked feet and their foreheads crack together. Iwaizumi’s ribs start to cramp as he laughs into Oikawa’s mouth.

Oikawa’s still giggling when they fall into bed together. It’s ridiculous.

“Leave the sweater on,” Oikawa orders through his laughter, wrapping his legs around Iwaizumi and squeezing. “It’s so cute.”

“Quid pro quo,” Iwaizumi replies, shoving the sleeves up to his elbows. It’s hard to talk with Oikawa’s hands shoved between their bodies, but he makes it work. “You leave the penguin socks on. And the antlers.”

Oikawa laughs harder and twists his fingers into Iwaizumi’s hair, “Deal.”

* * *

Christmas parties are alright, Iwaizumi guesses, because even though he wakes up the next morning with the skeleton of a hangover, he also wakes up to Oikawa’s eyes drilling a hole in his face.

“Morning, pillow princess,” Iwaizumi mumbles. His mouth tastes gross.

“You’re the one who kept wrestling me around,” Oikawa argues. “I’m not a cellphone! You can’t actually fold me in half!”  
  
Iwaizumi smiles. “I totally did.”

“I don’t really do one night stands,” Oikawa says after a beat of silence. “Also, Daichi tipped me off that you were going to be at one of the parties on that floor last night.”

Iwaizumi hums and brushes Oikawa’s hair off his forehead, “Suga texted me and told me that you were going to be at one of those parties, too, so—”

“So we’re both creepy,” Oikawa says, eyebrows raising. “And our roommates are meddlers.”

Iwaizumi shrugs a shoulder and tugs Oikawa closer. He doesn’t care. He needs about three more hours of sleep and then maybe round four. In the shower or something.

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to izzy for beta-ing and also best-ing (they're the best, seriously)


End file.
